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And there I was telling the same old story to the backdrop of the worlds smallest violin. I rattled it off once again. I tried to stick in little morals. I tried to make things sound more poetic. And I searched and then I searched some more for an ending but the story just got lost in some grey weird sort of area.

And in that grey endless tunnel was where I realized how baggage is birthed and nurtured. In the very moment when we think we are called to be little and weak the second life breaks your heart that’s exactly where baggage is born. And it grows huge and causes havoc when we don’t give ourselves the sweet sweet endings we so deserve.

You see, I’m THAT girl. The one who packs too many bags. I pack clothes I used to fit into in case of a chance I may lose 5kilos in a day. I pack bikinis in winter because I just can’t bud summer. I pack books I’ll probably never read. And all of it I squeeze and tuck (and occasionally jump on) to try fit in my bag even though it serves me no purpose just so that it allows me to think that maybe, just maybe I can still be a person I should of let go of yesterday. (Or last year). And you know what all of that crap is?

Thats baggage. Its all the stuff you hold on to (far too) tightly with some kind of childish hope that it will one day change you or that it will change or that anything will change. I mean change is inevitable right? They tell us that all the time. Something will change so I’m just going to carry this stuff. It’s heavy, but I’m carrying it anyways.

DEAL WITH IT.
I know, I’ve heard it before. Jeez, if only it were that simple. If it were we would all just stop hurting each other just because others have hurt us in the past. The truth is that the past is just a bunch of stories we tell ourselves. On repeat. And we grow when we realize that these cool little stories have power and that they could make someone feel better about themselves instead of just making ourselves sound broken instead. Each story is just one of the thousand and 1 opportunities to be trumpets but we would rather just sit in the corner and cry.

I failed. I hurt him. He hurt me. My friend moved away. My dog died. She lied to me. And what I’m realizing is that what I wish we could do is have a big party with one of those black wheely bins and we could choose all the things we hold dear and just chuck the rest away. The movies we shared. The “our songs”. The silly arguments from old friendships. That thing your grade 5 teacher said. All of it. Into the bin. And then burn it.

So I’ve kind of just made a decision that I’m retiring that story and I’m going to stop thinking that 1 day I will find an ending. Instead I will just pluck the (few) lessons and let the rest go. I’m walking away. Far Far away. Like a gangster. Like a baller.